


You're the only warm thing for miles & the only thing that can't shine

by montivagant



Category: DC Animated Universe (Timmverse), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional Repression, Episode: s03e06 Dead Reckoning, Hurt/Attempted Comfort, M/M, Multi, Self Harm, also it takes a detour into batman is embarrassingly in love w superman for a bit, batman is just like real fucked up in this fic sorry guys, maladaptive coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montivagant/pseuds/montivagant
Summary: It's after the events of Dead Reckoning and Batman's retreated to the Batcave. He's not sure who exactly he is right now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from I'm Going Back To Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense by danez smith

His hands would never feel clean. His hands.. his hands. His _hands._

He can.. he can still feel the pressure of the gun against his palm, and that's what keeps him hunched over the rough sink in the Batcave.

He feels distant, separated from his body--and hyperaware of every inch.

Especially his hands. His hands that held the gun, pulled that trigger.

He sobs, roughly, and dries his hands on a towel to start again.

They're red, he notes, distantly. He turns the water cold, and it feels good. Numbing against skin he's been scrubbing raw.

The soap won't be as effective with the cold water, another part of his head points out. He dismisses it. This is the tenth time. He's sure any actual benefits would have kicked in by now.

He knows he's stuck in this loop, even as he can't stop it.

It's taken hold of him in a way that--that he can tell, the second he becomes still again, he'll feel his finger pulling a trigger and he'll--

No.

He looks at his hands.

They aren't. There were more bubbles, last time. He thinks. Does it matter? No. What matters is he can feel it, his hands moving against each other, slippery with soap.

And the soap is clean, and it's making his hands clean.

But his hands will never be clean.

Never, not again. He, he _kill_ \--

Stop. Stop, he reminds himself.

He's washing his hands right now. That's all that's happening, he needs to focus on that. On this point, on this one moment. Because this one moment is what's happening right now, and he needs to focus on his actions.

He's washing his hands.

His hands are.. his hands are in someone else's. His hands are being moved to wash off the soap, and his hands are being pat dry with a towel and his hands are being held, carefully but firmly, and he looks up into Superman's eyes, who's looking down at him.

A garbled mess of a noise comes out of his throat, he might've been trying to say Superman or Clark or Kal or who knows what.

He blinks, and tries again. 

It doesn't work, again.

Now Superman--Clark? Kal? He doesn't know.. he doesn't know how he's being approached, he doesn't know who's being approached, he's not sure what he's wearing right now--is saying _something._ He isn't sure what. He assumes it's an actual language. 

There's a chance he's not reacting well to any of this.

He fumbles around for a name, he has to pick one for now. Kal. Kal works.

Kal's hands feel soft against his, they're cool--ice breath?--and they don't numb like the cold water did, but they're.. it's... soothing. Kal is holding his hands carefully. As if they're not dirty. As if they're not tainted. As if _he's_ not tainted.

He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve this.

"..been awake?"

It's like a radio finally tuning into the right station, static finally coalescing into words he can understand.

He blinks, fumbles for words of his own.

"..Kal?"

Kal nods, "that's right, I'm right here. Can you understand me?"

"I. Yes. Now I can."

"Okay. I don't think you've damaged your hands, but they need something cold. My hands won't be for much longer."

He pauses, just breathes for a long second.

"If it's not burned, submerging in cool water is best."

Kal nods. "Sounds good. We're gonna use another sink. Where would that be?"

He feels rooted to this spot. Rooted to the ground, and Kal's hands on his. He doesn't want to move. He nods toward the medical rooms.

Kal starts to move away, hands loosening. He sees that, and something inside him breaks too fast to see. But. But Kal's moving back. Kal must've felt or heard or, there's too many scenarios rushing around in his head.

His head won't.. it won't _stop_ now. He had it under control, before. When he was washing his hands. But now he's unmoored and his brain's unmoored with him.

"Hey, Bruce."

Well that's. That sure is grounding. He--Bruce--drags his eyes up again, to look at Kal. To drink Kal in, greedy, like always. He can't help it, he tells himself, there's always too much meaning in that face. Always has been, always will be. The photos don't capture it right. 

"Bruce, can you talk to me? Shake your head if you can't."

"Yes. I. I'm here." His words feel clumsy where they weren't earlier.

"Okay. I need you to work with me, okay? We're gonna get over there but I don't wanna do anything you don't want me to."

It's only the clumsiness, that frozen part of him that keeps in the words that form Flash-quick in his head.

_You can do anything you want to me._

He nods, movements jerky in a way he doesn't remember ever being before. It feels wrong, but the only thing about this whole scenario that doesn't feel wrong is Kal.

"So, I don't have to let go of your hands, but it does mean I can't fly you over there. I think the only option is walking. You good with that? I know we walk around the same speed."

Kal's going to keep touching him. Kal's not going to let go. Even though his hands--his hands should be red they should be red with blood and fault and he's _failed_ he's done what--

"Bruce? Hey, stay with me, okay? Right here." Kal squeezes his hands where they're joined. "C'mon, we gotta get over there."

He breathes in, lets himself _feel_ Kal's hands, breathes out. Okay. He nods. He's, well, he's not _fine_ now, but he can move. 

He takes a step, and another, and then he's walking, and he doesn't even need to worry Kal's keeping up with him because it's Kal. He doesn't have it in him to worry over that right now, but he files it into his head for later. 

And then they're there, and the only reason he knows he looked startled is because of the look Kal gives him for a split second.

"I need to let go of one of your hands to turn on the sink and close the drain, okay? I mean, I'm gonna do it at superspeed but," is that a blush?, he thinks, while Kal flounders, "should still tell you, right?"

He nods. He appreciates it. He feels a rush of air, and glances down to see water running in the sink. Kal's looking away now, concerning. And moreso when he hears Kal's first words.

"I don't.. like it. When you harm yourself like this."

His mouth opens to protest before he can think about it, but before he can assemble any words to force out, Kal's giving him this _look_.

Kal's lucky he's like this right now. Kal's lucky it's Kal giving him this look, and not _Superman._

"And I _am_ going to tell Diana."

He is absolutely scowling at that, but at least Kal has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"I have to. We all agreed, Bruce. You agreed."

The name is distracting. It's his name, yes, but it doesn't fit quite right, right now. He feels like he doesn't fit into his skin right now. He's not sure if it's his literal skin or the batsuit's second one around him that he can't fit into.

Kal's making a lot of assumptions about who's here right now.

He feels like some unholy configuration of his identities. He can feel his body shifting and changing, melding to a role for a split second before flipping to the next.

"I know. I _know_ ," he finally forces out, words scraping out of his mouth.

He's standing still and he stumbles, legs wavering somehow. He's suddenly only standing up because Kal is gripping his hands tight, and now he's fucking. He's _crying_ and he tries to let go of Kal to cover his own face--he can't. He doesn't want anyone _seeing_ him like this. 

And he--

He--

He feels like a child again, when he'd pick and pick at scabs. Never leaving them to _heal_ , so they'd open over and over, bleeding again and again.

He's never quite kicked that habit, even now, when his wounds are so much bigger than scrapes on his knees.

He always pushes himself out too early. He can never just let it lie for long enough, long enough to dull, to soften itself against all his rough edges.

"Bruce? Bruce? Can you hear me?"

His eyes clear, Kal's crouched down with him, still clinging onto his hands. They're not cold anymore, he notes.

"I can hear you. Kal." He hears the water still running, suddenly, loud enough to echo across his skull. "Turn the water off. Don't let it spill."

"Oh, yeah."

His hands feel light when Kal's are gone, a weight gone. Whether that weight was the literal or figurative he doesn't know. Maybe both. Probably both.

His hands feel fine.

They do, really.

His hands are just as durable as the rest of him, and they feel _fine._

"Hey," and it's soft, careful, but he still startles and looks up into Kal's eyes. One of Kal's hands moves toward his face, slowly enough that he could easily move away if he wanted to. He doesn't. He lets Kal touch him, welcomes it. Kal's hand lands on the side of his face, thumb gently wiping away tears. 

"Hey." It's rough and barely a whisper, but he knows Kal can hear him.

Kal smiles. It's beautiful. All of Kal's smiles are, but he always notices it. It's the genuine quality to it, something integral to Kal, who genuinely means this smile. Who's meant every smile ever made.

"Hey, Bruce. I think you're more with me now, yeah? Did you hurt anything when you fell?"

Can't help an eye roll. "Making jokes so soon?"

"You know I'm not. But if you can throw one at me, that's a good sign."

He grunts. He can't decide whether to be annoyed or impressed that Kal's figured him out so fast. It's the consequence of letting people in, he knows that. And it will end badly, he can see now.

"Hey, hey Bruce, c'mon, stay with me. I see you going somewhere bad."

He purposefully evens his breathing out, looks up into Kal's eyes again.

It could be worse.

"There you go, yeah," Kal's voice is still careful. 

He feels like some kind of wounded animal suddenly, and that's a bad spiral to start and he knows it, but he can still feel his breath speeding up.

Kal just... watches him with a look he can't quite decipher. 

"Can I hug you--give you pressure?"

He blinks. And then blinks again, clearly surprised. He nods, suddenly, frantically.

And then Kal is all around him, and he's _warm_ and safe and, and, 

(and he doesn't deserve this), 

but that doesn't matter because he's only taking what Kal's offering him, 

(and why is Kal offering it?) 

because Kal is too good, has always been too good, too understanding and kind to him, 

(even when he doesn't deserve it)

...yes. Always when he doesn't deserve it.

He's always wanted to protect Kal from the world, that optimism, that cheerfulness. Somehow, though, Kal's always the one protecting him. 

Even from himself. 

...especially from himself. 

He takes a breath. Lets himself feel Kal around him. The warmth of another person, a contrast with the cold floor. The pressure keeping him grounded. The way Kal's breath ruffles his hair and warms his scalp. Each distinct finger pressing--carefully--into his back.

"Can I be sappy?" 

It's an unexpected question, but one he thinks he should've seen coming. He thinks, about himself, about Kal. 

"Not now."

"Okay."

And he would feel bad, he would, but he knows exactly how he would take anything emotional from Kal right now--in the worst way possible. And then they would fight. 

He isn't sure he could handle that right now.

Kal's breathing is loud, he notices suddenly, and then can't stop hearing. It's _too_ loud. 

In case he needs it, he realizes. To help slow his own breathing down, just in case. He's not sure how to feel about that.

He thinks, maybe, it's okay. Kal could try to be subtler, but he's given up most hopes of that by now. Not that Kal can ever know that.

It's easier to think, like this. Trapped in--no. Surrounded--no, again. Held. _Held._ By Kal. With those sappy things like compassion or care... 

Love.

He easily holds back a snort, as if Kal could do anything _without_ love. He's always thought about it. How Kal seems to be imbued with love. It fills Kal up, shines on everything around.

Even him.

Sometimes, especially him.

It feels so _warm._ It feels like some of the memories he has of his parents. Love fills every inch of those memories with a golden hue.

Sometimes he feels more like a moth than a bat, drawn to Kal's flame, ready to be burned with no regrets.

But Kal didn't burn.

He pauses for a minute, reviews his internal clock (useless. Spent too much time not thinking to be accurate) and location (Batcave--medbay. Private enough if someone enters to go on patrol, but won't be once they start getting back. Or if they're nosy. His children tend to be nosy).

He exhales softly, focuses on Kal's arms around him. He doesn't want to move, but they need to sooner rather than later.

He sighs softly, and some annoyance slips out into it. Clearly he's not all together yet.

"Kal." 

And the annoyance is even in there! This is. Distressing.

"Yeah?" 

Kal sounds nervous, and he feels terrible. He caused that.

"We need to go upstairs before any of the children see me."

The 'like this' stays unsaid, but he's sure Kal hears it.

"Oh! Can do!"--the nerves are gone, he notes. Good. "I'll carry--"

"No."

It comes out of him suddenly, a reflex after he hears the word 'carry'. He's sure Kal saw his inner reaction, hopefully doesn't think it's because of Kal.

"I do not--I need to move under my own... direction. Agency."

Kal flinches--flinches!--away, and he's feeling the ghost of a texture against his palms again.

"I'm _sorry_ \--"

"Don't. Not right now. I can't." He growls, frustrated. "I'm together, right now. I have to stay like that. Until we get somewhere safe."

Kal softens, then nods, cautiously.

"I can.." he closes his eyes, breathes, "I can get upstairs. On my own, fine. But I need--" a pause, "stay near me. But don't.. don't touch me."

He lets out a long exhale, opens his eyes again.

"Okay. Let go of me."

Kal does, slowly.

He misses it already. But he needs to focus, so he does. He pulls himself together, and then uses the sink to pull himself up.

Kal follows him up, practically hovering around him. Well. He doesn't exactly _hate_ it. He tries to ignore how easily he could reattach himself to Kal. Or get Kal to reattach to him.

He closes his eyes again, breathes for a moment. _Get it together._

Five minutes, that's all he needs.


	2. too much light makes me nervous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! it's been a while huh. chapter count changed to ? bc this didn't end how i thought it was going to and there's gonna have to be more.
> 
> chapter title from the same poem as the fic title

The door is locked, twice, before he lets Kal touch him again.

And when he feels it, he also feels the tears gathering at his eyes. He feels rooted to the spot, which he notes as familiar. The forced pause in his head must have done _something_ to him. His brain cycling through the same emotions, just slightly to the left this time. 

He registers, suddenly, that he's about to start sobbing--again--and it's only Clark's hand on his arm.

"I--" and it comes out broken, jagged, and he knows he was about to say something like _want_ or even worse, _need_ , so he cuts himself off before this gets worse. 

It's already pretty bad.

He exhales and shifts, watches Clark still.

"I--I'm wearing. Too much." He doesn't tug, but he moves his arm away from Clark's, needs to--to. The suit. It's keeping him in a strange limbo of personality more than his own brain is right now. 

Clark moves also, towards the dresser. Good thing he knows how to make himself useful.

"Top left drawer."

His _skin_ feels lighter when he strips the suit off, he's both more and less rooted than before, there's a stray thought about how much control Batman has over him.

He laughs at that one, on the inside.

He takes the clothes Clark hands him with a nod instead of a grateful look, and he hopes Clark knows the difference.

They're soft, when he puts them on. His top left drawer is where the soft clothes go.

He thinks these are his favorites of each as well. The thought that Clark probably touched each item--only picked out the softest, spreads a feeling through him that he's not sure how to name, but it's hard to hold in the inevitable again.

His mouth opens and closes, he reaches an arm around and lets it drop.

He doesn't know how to _ask_ without saying _need_. He's already being too vulnerable, too open, too needy.

And here Clark is just _entertaining_ him, hovering around him like he doesn't know how to handle this on his own--like he's incompetent or or. 

He's definitely wasting Clark's time.

And that pushes him over the edge, a hand digging itself into his stomach to just--just try and _contain_ himself. But it's been too late for hours now and, and, the gates are flooded, flooding, and it's loud and messy and he feels himself dropping to the floor. 

(Again, he thinks, he's falling to the floor _again._ )

In between one gasping rattle and the next, he's surrounded by Clark.

"Hey, hey, you're good, you're safe, I'm here."

He's not gonna be done crying anytime soon, and he--he trusts Clark to stay. To wait his tears out, to keep holding him carefully, but with just enough pressure.

It'd scare him if he wasn't busy trying not to get Clark's suit wet.

 

Bruce comes back to himself in parts, one after another. It's slow.

His muscles ache, his joints creak, he hears all the same pops and crackles echo throughout his body as he stands up.

He's too old for this, probably. Or just too damaged. His skeleton's of Theseus now, patchworked by so much metal it's a miracle he's still allowed on planes.

"Sometimes." He starts, and stops. "Sometimes," he starts again, "I wish I'd never--I wish it was still just me, alone, in Gotham."

Clark squeezes his hand, twice. Bruce squeezes back, once. Their simplest code. _Do you want to keep talking? No._

"Do you want to move to bed? I could've heard you creaking from half the world away."

Bruce grimaces. "Change out of your suit and I'll consider it."

Clark grins, "deal. Is my stuff still in the closet?"

"And Diana's," Bruce always says her name softly, when it's just the three of them. Like being allowed to use it is an honor. Like she's holy.

There's _guilt_ mixed in there now.

Clark thinks it sounds heartbreaking. He kisses Bruce's temple, can't help himself, before speeding to the closet to change.

Bruce will blame the wind Clark whips up for the stinging in his eyes.

He turns on instinct, towards his very soft, very warm, very _empty_ bed.

It's so big, he's suddenly aware of how big it is.

He blinks, fast--damn Clark--and tries to, he can move toward it. He knows he can. He's frozen.

And Clark's standing next to him again, warm and close.

"Did you wanna make sure my fashion was acceptable before letting me in?" Clark smiles.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Get in it before I kick you out."

Clark is ahead of him now, and he can move again.

It's only five steps, at the most. But suddenly they're easy to move, following Clark.

He's not going to examine that.

The bed is warm with Clark. He always runs warm. Bruce stopped using the heaviest blankets on his bed ages ago.

"Better?"

Bruce hums.

"Good. Sleep, you've been awake for almost a day."

Bruce can't find it in him to argue that as he drifts off.


End file.
